


lights too bright

by caffeinefire



Series: Ineffable Responses to an Ineffable Event (2019) [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Day One Prompt: Light and Darkness, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Event, Ineffable Event 2019, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Nightmares, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 02:27:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21129251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeinefire/pseuds/caffeinefire
Summary: Aziraphale’s vision whites out. He can’t see. Can’t hear anything but that last word echoing in his head.“Angel.” A plea.“Angel.” A prayer.“Angel!” An accusation.





	lights too bright

Heaven is large, and empty, blinding in its light and unrelenting in its intensity. Aziraphale’s nerves are working themselves up again, and he finds himself trying to still the vibration under his skin as he waits. Back impossibly straighter, hands unconsciously smoothing the fabric of his waistcoat, pulling it down, hoping that this time he’ll feel presentable, this time he’ll feel welcomed. Today will go well. It has to.

He waits for their arrival, making a very pointed effort not to turn and watch his back, not to turn at all. Don't look around. Don't look impatient. Don't look nervous. He stands in the open, alone. He waits, with no indication of when they will arrive. No way to track the time. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go but where he already stands. His hands squeeze around each other, fingers working themselves into intricate patterns, and he allows himself this small outlet for the tension within him, creating a modicum of comfort in the movement, the pressure.

His fidgeting stops suddenly as the Archangels approach. His report begins, the heart of his human corporation thundering in his chest. Their voices are too loud, reverberating against the glass walls, all volume and confidence.

He tries to match their surety. After all, he’s rehearsed what he’s going to say.

But their faces are too close and their eyes too still, the omnipresent light making them shine, washed out and empty. And his own voice has always been too small.

“I am pleased to report that I have discovered where the, ah, opposition will be raising the Antichrist,” he recites, thankful that he sounds more composed than he feels.

“Excellent.” Gabriel’s expression, disapproving and impatient, never quite matches his words. “Keep observing and keep us informed of further developments.”

“I-,” Aziraphale starts before he can lose his nerve, before they can walk away. “Well I was actually thinking I could take a more… proactive role,” he pauses, and when they only look at him he continues. “I _could, _well, try to _thwart _their attempts to make the boy evil. Influence him toward the light, if you will. I could-,”

“Aziraphale, you can’t make the Antichrist _good,”_ Gabriel says, any farce of patience crumbling away. “Besides, that would put you in close proximity to Crowley for a dangerously long period of time. He could spot you.”

“Well, I suppose, but I don’t think-,”

“Perhaps he’s not worried about being spotted,” Michael chimes in. The steady tone of her voice sends a shiver down Aziraphale’s spine, but he latches onto her words, struggling to keep his hands still.

“Quite right, I-,”

“Because perhaps he already has been,” she continues, having paused seemingly just to give her the opportunity to interrupt him.

“Wh- what? No, I don’t-,” the lights are too bright. His eyes can’t focus on anything for the glare.

“I think you’re right, Michael,” Uriel offers. “I think he’s been working with Crowley. Working _against us._ Against the Plan.”

“I- I wouldn’t,” this isn’t how it's supposed to go. His heart is too loud in his ears.

“Did you really think you could hide this from us?” Gabriel asks, amused. And suddenly Crowley is between them, on his knees, hands chained tightly to the floor, long red hair loose from its bun and plastered against his face.

_“Crowley-,” _

“See,” Michael sounds triumphant. When he looks up she holds a perfect glass pitcher of water. Just like when- “I told you he was a traitor.”

“No, I_\- please_-,” he can’t say anything else. Can’t find the breath for words. He could still talk around this. Still get them out of this. If only he could find air in something other than quick gasps. This isn’t how it _happened._

“He’ll pay the price for your weakness,” Gabriel smiles and nods to Michael, and Aziraphale can’t _move. _He catches a quick glimpse of desperate yellow eyes between messy strands of red hair as Crowley looks up at him. He looks so _scared._

Then the water falls.

“Angel-,” one word before Crowley’s cut off.

Aziraphale’s vision whites out. He can’t _see. _Can’t hear _anything _but that last word echoing in his head.

“Angel.” A plea.

“Angel.” A prayer.

“_Angel.” _An accusation.

Aziraphale gasped for breath and finally found it. The first thing he registered was that it was dark. The only light was dim and yellow, filtered through the lampshade next to his armchair.

“Angel, hey, hey its alright.”

Aziraphale’s eyes finally focused on the figure next to him. Crowley was practically surrounding him. He sat on the arm of his chair, one leg pulled up close to him, one dangling off the other side. His hand was on Aziraphale’s shoulder, but when their eyes made contact, Crowley quickly drew it back, no longer touching him, but still hovering.

“Must’ve fell asleep,” Crowley said softly, “had a pretty nasty dream, by the looks of it.”

Aziraphale blinked a few times, then swallowed down another panicked gasp, forcing himself to breath normally. He nodded, then spoke with a voice that surprised him with its roughness.

“You looked so comfortable on the couch. It looked rather pleasant. Thought I might give it a try,” he cleared his throat, trying to regain his usual composure, but his hands were still shaking when he tried to close the book in his lap, and he felt that his head hadn’t quite caught up with the rest of him as he tried to adjust to his surroundings. Soft armchair. Dark windows. Tall, close bookshelves. The scent of cocoa and dust and a hint of sulphur. Crowley.

“Yeah, its not usually done sitting up, angel. Should’ve asked me for pointers first,” he grinned gently, tilting his head to try to get Aziraphale’s attention. “You alright?”

Aziraphale focused back on him with a start, noticing as he came back to himself a little more just how _close _Crowley was, his hair still mussed from his nap and his glasses set on the coffee table, leaving his wide yellow eyes to watch Aziraphale without filter.

“I-,” he cleared his throat again. “I’m alright now, yes. Thank you. Terribly sorry about all that.” He turned slightly to set his book on the coffee table. He’d probably pick up again in a moment, but he needed an excuse to ignore Crowley’s gaze and his frown at Aziraphale’s still unsteady grip. “I didn’t wake you did I?”

“No, you- Well, yes- But its alright. It- Do you want to talk about it?” Crowley had withdrawn his arm, no longer hovering, but stubbornly refusing to move from the arm of the chair.

“I’m afraid I-,” _don’t really recall it. _That was common in dreaming, wasn’t it? To not remember. But it was so far from the truth, it stuck in Aziraphale’s throat. He remembered every moment of the horrid scene. The bookshop was dark, and quiet, and safe, and Armageddon had failed weeks ago. But in his head Aziraphale could still watch the world as it ended. The harsh light of heaven. The echo of Gabriel’s voice. And standing out in sharp relief against the light and the sound and how they _grated _on his senses, was the image of Crowley on his knees. Tired. Chained. Holy water streaming toward his head.

Aziraphale drew in another gasp of air, dangerously close to a sob, and his hand flew up to cover his mouth.

“_Angel,” _Crowley was back to hovering, hand hesitating before resting on his shoulder again, then in a fit of confidence moving up to his cheek. “Aziraphale look at me.” And he did. Crowley’s eyes were wide with concern, but his face was decidedly calm. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

“Oh _Crowley,” _Aziraphale’s self-control broke all at once, and he pulled Crowley to him, burying his face in his chest and clutching at the back of his shirt. He let his arms shake and let the gasping, panicked breaths come as all his tension and his fear and his careful, costly composure forced their way out of him. Crowley stiffened at first in surprise and uncertainty, but quickly moved to embrace the angel, soft reassurances pouring from his lips.

When Aziraphale was done and his breathing had calmed, he loosened his grip slightly from where he’d clung to Crowley, but kept his head buried in the demon’s chest. Crowley had relaxed into his lap, one arm firmly around his shoulders, grounding him, and the other running a soothing motion through his hair.

“I don’t know how you sleep so often, my dear, its dreadful,” Aziraphale joked, eyes still closed. He felt more than heard the demon chuckle.

“‘s not always like that. In fact, it’s almost _never _like that if you do it right.” Aziraphale felt the hesitation as Crowley’s breath paused slightly before continuing. He decided he quite liked this, holding him so close he could feel all the little choices and breaths Crowley made while speaking. “I could show you sometime, if you want.” It almost sounded like a joke, but Aziraphale knew better. He decided he liked knowing that if he opened his eyes, he’d only see the dark fabric of Crowley’s shirt. He didn’t open his eyes.

“I think I would like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @caffeinefire on tumblr! This is in response to prompts from @ineffable-event on tumblr!


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